


Earned Her Stripes

by orphan_account



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Blood Kink, Established Relationship, F/F, Guilty Pleasures, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-14 22:09:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1280572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Armstrong has a blood fetish and a massive guilt complex, and Hawkeye is more than willing to give it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Earned Her Stripes

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompts: "Guilty pleasure. Guilt ... with pleasure." and "Hey I know it's not Femfeb anymore but can you do something with a blood kink? It doesn't have to be extreme if you're uncomfortable with that!"
> 
> Oh boy.
> 
> I don't write smut that often and this was lame and I'm going to redo it (poor narrative choices, GC, congratulations on being a fucking failure), but hopefully this at least entertains a certain someone's kink (Cordelia you're killing me here).
> 
> For clarification, Armstrong hasn't left any of the scars. They're all from fighting.
> 
> Unedited/unbeta'd/etc. Enjoy!

“Are you sure about this?” asked Armstrong again, her knees weighing down the expanse of the mattress as if the gravity of the situation began and ended in the twin pits around the bends of her legs. Even in the dimmed light of the half-dark—the moonlight from the partially drawn curtains of the east-facing window illuminated _just_ enough of their shadows to see by—Armstrong found her gaze riveted to her lover’s form stretched out over the bed. Back arched. Head and shoulders on the pillow. Hands straying to the curve of her belly, to the shadow of her breasts. Legs extended between Armstrong’s knees.

And the scars.

Long and thin and paled to reddish-pink on her neck, extending from a centimetre below her jaw to beyond her collarbone.

Short and ravaging at her abdomen, giving the appearance, almost, of minced meat.

Round and puckered, tracing Amestris’s war history through bulletholes of varying shapes and sizes, the largest at Hawkeye’s upper right thigh, where dispatching a rogue alchemist had gouged a crescent moon in her flesh that had scarred over and never quite fully healed.

Armstrong swallowed. Though her eyes were narrowed—her jaw characteristically set firm—she watched Hawkeye dip her head sufficiently to bounce her golden bangs on her brow, and she inhaled, levelly as possible, in the hopes that the air in her stretched out lungs would drown out the guilt.

Steadily she drew the knife: Her sword, although altogether more pleasurable, had proved unwieldy in Hawkeye’s confection of a bed.

Wedging her knee between Hawkeye’s thighs and gently forcing her legs open—Hawkeye squeezed, and an electric thrill of anticipation ran up Armstrong’s spine—the general outlined the mountainous terrain of scars on the lieutenant’s stomach. Ran her fingertip over each grooved indentation while Hawkeye shivered under the fragility of the touch, palpable even to the deadened tissue under the earned stripes.

“I’m sorry I’m so fucked up,” Armstrong whispered.

Hawkeye stroked the back of the general’s hand, caressed the valleys between her knuckles with the pad of an index finger. “You’re not, Olive. I love you, and I want you to be happy.” She lifted her other hand to cup Armstrong’s chin; the corners of her mouth curled into a half-moon smile, a Cheshire smile. “Besides, I’ve had worse.”

Which didn’t alleviate the guilt so much as give Armstrong a nearly overwhelming desire to dress her lover in five thousand layers of plush and sit her down with infinite cups of hot cocoa. But Hawkeye understood the survival of the fittest and had fit herself to the highest standard Armstrong could imagine. Which, of course, had attracted Armstrong to the sniper and weapons specialist in the first place.

Clutching Hawkeye’s fingers for half a second before flicking her palm, Armstrong continued over the rise of Hawkeye’s belly to her hip, thick and muscular under Armstrong’s hands, and to the dip that led her naturally to the outside of Hawkeye’s labia. She mapped the sensitive seams with that hand, feeling Hawkeye shudder at the gossamer warmth in the sweat-dampened seams and far damper flesh just around the opening of her slit. Armstrong smirked. “Oh, _my_. Someone’s excited to see me.”

“And who’s fault is that?”

Though Armstrong chuckled, privately she wondered if perhaps she should keep to normal fingering. But as she adjusted the grip on the knife, she inspired; her toes curled and her mouth twisted in pleasure even prior to starting.

Bending over her lover, Armstrong tested the blade on her palm: sharp and painless. She set the knife to a few centimetres left of Hawkeye’s navel and drew a line further left. Hawkeye bit her lower lip. Another wave of guilt, strong and putrid, coiled in Armstrong’s innards. Churned, slicing through her entrails with a blade of ice.

A crescent of blood pooled over the lieutenant’s skin. Armstrong’s gaze riveted to the crimson, dark in the dimness, as if she could not look away. As she slipped two fingers between Hawkeye’s folds, her index and thumb fingers circling her slick entrance while her thumb played at the apex of lieutenant’s clit—with her blunt nail, as Hawkeye liked—Armstrong leaned forward to bring her mouth close to the wound. She glanced up, probing for permission with her eyes from Hawkeye’s, twin flashes of amber blocked in by sable and shadow.

“Yes,” Hawkeye murmured; Armstrong felt her lover grab a fistful of gold at the back of her head, propelling her forward. “Go ahead.”

No matter the guilt wracking her body and drawing her into herself, then, Armstrong traced up the cut with her tongue. The coppery taste, like a favoured dessert, hit her all at once with a mental crash that bid her halfway nuzzle against Hawkeye’s belly with her forehead. The pleasure melted the guilt to a faint nausea at the back of her mind, and she redoubled her efforts on both fronts.

Whenever Hawkeye moaned and trembled and arched her back from the thrusting-kneading force of Armstrong’s hand, the general took the opportunity to smear blood over the scars, to lick the offering from the serrated flesh, to delight in Hawkeye’s sacrifice on her furled tongue. By the time the wound had ceased bleeding and she considered a second incision, Hawkeye had gotten off twice, and she captured the general’s hands in hers.

At the moment of contact the guilt returned in full force. Bile searing up her throat. Acid boiling on her tongue. Her stomach unravelling in her mouth.

She scarcely reached the bathroom before the urge to vomit sent the contents of her innards into the porcelain bowl of the toilet. Not a second later Hawkeye was kneeling beside her, holding her hair, massaging between her shoulder blades.

“Olive.”

The porcelain cold against her shivering palms, Armstrong held the bowl weakly. “No.”

“Stop that. I _enjoyed_ it.”

“I know.” Clearing her throat from the miserable tone, Armstrong coughed and tried again: “But that doesn’t help anything.” She glared at the vomit congealing in the basin. Her fingers toyed with the flush lever. “I can’t _help_ but feel like I’m forcing you.”

Hawkeye’s ministrations slowed; she steadied her hand in the centre of Armstrong’s back, and despite her guilt she sensed the shiver of pleasure rekindled. “Even if I like it?”

“I . . .”

Leaning forward, Hawkeye kissed the back of Armstrong’s neck, just at the junction where her skin raised slightly, and _bit_. The pain jolted through the general’s frame. “Come back to the bed. We’ll go slow.”

Armstrong studied Hawkeye through the golden film of her bangs. “. . . are you sure?”

The lieutenant sighed, but Armstrong could see the smile, faint as it were, creasing lines around her eyes and mouth. “Aren’t _you_ the certain one, Olive? Or should I say, General Armstrong, sir?”

“Not with you, dammit. My one weakness.”

Unfolding her legs to stand, Hawkeye offered the general a hand; Armstrong intertwined their fingers, pulled, stood _over_ Hawkeye despite feeling _under_ her. “Don’t pull a Roy Mustang. That never ends well.”

She still had the knife gripped in her other palm; with the knuckles of the same hand she flushed her vomit, and—with luck, and her lover’s smile—her guilt. “For that terrible comparison alone I’m going to fuck you so hard you won’t be able to stand for a week.”

“Is that a promise?”

Armstrong smirked, and Hawkeye saluted.

“I look forward to it.” Her smile solidified to something real, something tangible and revealed. “Olive.”


End file.
